Fault
by StrawberryBubble
Summary: After Sam leaves for Stanford, Dean has to take the brunt of his father's anger on the situation. One-shot. T for abuse and language.


Dean was asleep when his father burst through the door to the shack they were taking refuge in, furiously muttering something or other under his breath. The cracked wooden door slammed back against the wall, and Dean immediately jerked up, eyes wide in a panic before he recognized who it was. "Dad?" He rubbed his eyes wearily. "What's goin'—"

"Shut up, boy." John snapped resentfully, and Dean straightened up, squaring his shoulders when his father took a shuddering step forward. He smelt liquor, even with the five foot difference between them. "Dad—"

"You hear me?" The man clenched his fist and stared his son down. His words were slurred together in a way that frightened Dean—only violence came when his father got this inebriated. "You ain't even got a right to call me that. It's your fault, boy. It's yours."

"No," Dean shook his head, standing up to back away. He didn't have to be told what the man was talking about. "No, Dad, it's not, Sam—"

"Sam left. Sam left because of you."

"Sam left because of _school_," Dean said, holding out his hands in an attempt to calm the man. "He left for college, Dad, that's it. Remember? Stanford?"

John didn't even seem to hear it, didn't seem to realize he was being completely irrational in his blame. He reached out and shoved Dean when the younger Winchester tried to take his arm and help him to sit, then again, until Dean tumbled to the floor, a hand up as he scooted back. "It's not my fault," he tried, "it's not!"

"So it's mine?" John snarled. "'s that what you're telling me?"

Dean watched as his father reached down and unclasped his belt, pulling it free from his pants and holding it up, the metal glinting. "No, no, it's not, it's Sam's! He left! He left, Dad, it wasn't—" He cut off and turned his head as the belt came down, hitting right above his ear with a loud _crack!_ He cried out, only barely hearing his father's voice over a deafening ring. "Take off your shirt."

"Dad, please," Dean whispered, risking a look back at him, but John's expression showed nothing but rage. "Now, boy!"

Hesitantly, bit by bit, he inched his shirt up and over his head, trying to steady his gasps for breath. His father hadn't belted him since he was much younger, when Sam had run away in Flagstaff under his brother's watch. Hadn't done it to Sam in his entire life, thankfully, as Dean remembered it was not a pleasant experience. _He'll be calm, then, though, _Dean thought, but no comfort came from it. He cringed and clenched his teeth, flipping onto his stomach, waiting for the first blow to bite into his flesh. When it came, he yelped, his vision flashing white, but he closed his mouth after, only letting out muffled whimpers as the lashes continued.

Finally, the new pain quit coming, leaving him crying softly, fists in the carpet. He heard a loud crash from behind him, and then John murmuring incoherently. With all the strength he had remaining, Dean struggled through the agony to sit, tears pouring down his cheeks as he stared at his father. The man had collapsed against the couch, his face buried in his hands, shaking with his own sobs.

"D-Dad…?"

"It's my fault." John's cracking voice was just above a whisper. "It's my fault. It's my fault."

"N-no, 's not." Dean reached a trembling hand out to rest on his father's arm. "It's not."

"Should've raised you better…"

"You raised us fine, Dad," Dean said, squeezing gently. "It's okay. It's okay."

Dean helped the man up after a while, covering him with a blanket when he lay down on the couch, nearly instantly passing out. It was more than likely that he would remember nothing that had happened tonight, as per the usual. Dean looked at him for a long moment, then let out a long groan as he bent down to pick up his shirt, staggering to the bathroom and closing the door. He clicked on the light and inspected the damage that had been inflicted, grimacing at the long, purple-blue streaks across his back and sides. It would heal; he would be fine.

He reached into the medicine cabinet for supplies, frowning when the cell in his pocket began ringing. He dug into his pocket and flipped it open, holding it to his uninjured ear. "Hello?"

There was a long pause, then; "Hey Dean."

Dean scoffed. "You got a lot of nerve, little brother. What makes you think I wanna talk to you?"

Sam might have sniffed on the other line, but it could have been static. "I just, I...I wanted to say I got here alright."

"Great. Happy for you."

"How're you holding up?"

"How do you think, Sam? What the hell kinda question is that? After what you just did?"

"Dean—"

"Have fun at Stanford, Sam." Dean slammed the phone closed. He stared at the wall for a moment before throwing the phone against it, not hard enough to break it, but enough the battery came out, the three parts clattering on the tile as Dean sunk to the floor, arms around himself, unable to stop the tears.

_Great,_ _Sammy, _he thought after a while, _I'm absolutely great._


End file.
